


Rock Star

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, drug overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 09:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1893420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is less than thrilled with his latest undercover assignment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock Star

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the fantastic Treon for the beta.

      Neal wasn’t really sure why he had been told to sit in on this meeting of some extraordinarily intimidating figures from the DEA and Organized Crime. Dour FBI Head Reese Hughes was also present, but, thank God, so was Peter! Trying to look as unobtrusive as possible, Neal stayed in the background, perched on a window ledge, and listened intently as the scenario was laid out by the big departmental muscle, one at a time.

      Apparently, there was now some new potent meth coming into the country, and it was being distributed in city after city across the United States. Its chemical signature proved that it came from the same source, and it was quite deadly to the uninitiated addicts and to the naïve school kids who tried it. Organized Crime thought they knew who was bankrolling it, and the DEA now had an idea of who was transporting it. They just didn’t know the how. Intra-departmental cooperation was needed to unearth that fact and thus drive a final nail into the coffin of the enterprise.

      The narrative then unexpectedly segued to a new rock band that had recently formed called “Satan’s Spawn.” They weren’t exactly your average boy band like “One Direction” or “N Sync.” They were a bit older and played hard, retro-metal rock. Reaching new heights of popularity across the generational spectrum, they had just come back from a successful European musical excursion and were touring cities across this country. Coincidentally, wherever they played, that city suddenly had an alarming spike of overdoses from the potent new drug. It seemed that the buck stopped at their door, but no one could figure out how the distribution was taking place.

      The authorities needed an inside man to infiltrate the group, but it had to occur organically in order to be plausible. It so happened that the local police had a warrant for the arrest of the lead guitarist/back up vocalist in their pocket. The guy had threatened and been abusive to his former girlfriend, and the cops had applied pressure on her to bring charges. The plan was for the police to make an arrest after the task force was successful in securing a replacement for this band member. A cooperating judge would ensure that the guitarist was held without bail so that he would be out of the picture while the op went down. After all this was revealed, Neal was now about to find out why he was summoned to the big powwow. As he began to suspect, the FBI had decided to parade out their trick pony to perform.

      “The reason that you have been invited to this party, Caffrey,” Hughes began as he zeroed in on Neal with a laser stare, “is because Peter has informed us that you can sing and play the guitar. So, you are going to use your usual slippery methods to embed yourself into the group as the replacement and find out where they have the drugs.”

     Neal was annoyed and disgusted. “Seriously? A friggin’ rock band? This really isn’t in my wheelhouse, Sir.”

     Hughes favored him with a look that could kill. “Well, since you are still a ward of the state and supposedly work for the FBI,” he retorted sarcastically, “and because we have been ultra-lenient and have tolerated your antics, you will _make_ it a matter that is now in your wheelhouse. You’re a forger, damn it; you make others believe your work is the real deal. It shouldn’t be that difficult for you to pass yourself off as a rock singer, or a reasonable facsimile of one.” Hughes finished his tirade with a fist to the table. No arrogant, wise-ass conman was going to oppose him in front of other agency heads. He was not going to put up with this disrespect!

     Even though seething at the reprimand, Neal decided that silence was the best option at this moment in time. He looked to Peter, and apparently Peter felt the same way. The senior member of the DEA broke the tense impasse by saying that they would have the local authorities arrest the guitarist/singer tonight. The band had a gig in just two weeks in Manhattan so they would be scrambling to find a replacement. It would be a prime time for Neal to make his move. Organized Crime had the right people on their payroll who would vouch for him. It would seem as if he was an impromptu miracle.

     Back at his desk, Neal was trying to channel some of what Mozzie called transcendental serenity by chanting a mantra over and over. “F*ck, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck…” until Peter, damn him and his big mouth, interrupted his reverie.

     “Buck up, Dino! If anybody can do it, you can. I have faith in you. And just think, you’ll be off-anklet for this one and you’ll notice I haven’t even started chewing my nails yet.”

     “Ha-ha, Peter, how do you even know if I can sing, much less play the guitar?” Neal challenged.

     “Well, let’s see now,” the agent mused as he tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. “I believe it was a little intimate bistro in Montmartre awhile ago. Yes, Paris in the springtime -- perfect weather to execute surveillance on suspected forger James Bonds in his element. You were enchanting a plethora of Mademoiselles while strumming a guitar and singing French love songs. Actually, you weren’t half bad, ‘Remy Dumont.’”

     Neal narrowed his eyes at Peter. “Gloating is quite unbecoming to you, Peter,” was all that he could come up with at that moment.

     So, the plan went off without a hitch. Neal, or “Nick,” was vetted by the right people, had an audition, and he was in. Peter tried to keep in touch on the burner phone outfitted with a GPS tracker that he had given Neal, but it usually just immediately rolled over into voice mail. On the rare occasion when Peter managed to get through, Neal rushed the conversation saying that he was rehearsing. Peter suspected that Neal was just sulking and this was payback.

      Eventually, Neal passed on the information that the band was doing a pre-tour show at an exclusive Midtown nightclub to see how the fans took to him as a newcomer. If they appeared to like him, then he would continue to perform with them on the circuit.

      “How’s that for being out of my radius?” Neal taunted. “Run that past Hughes for me, would you?” Then he abruptly hung up on Peter. Yeah, his normally laid-back CI was pissed because he perceived this undercover op as demeaning. Peter had no doubt about that!

~~~~~~~~~~

      On the night of the pre-tour audition, Peter made sure he was front and center in the upscale Manhattan nightclub. The cover-charge was extravagant, so the clientele was well-heeled and eclectic. Diana and Jones had accompanied him, but the surprise addition of the evening was Reese Hughes, who stuck out like a sore thumb. None of the team knew the best way to tell him this, although Peter suggested, as diplomatically as possible, that they had this covered and he didn’t need to put himself out and suffer through the evening. Hughes wasn’t buying it.

      “I fully intend to see our resident felon in action and decide for myself if he really is such a paragon of deception and worth the amount of aggravation that he causes. But, don’t worry, Peter. People will just assume that I am one of the financial backers,” he stated with conviction. “You know, like what they call an ‘angel’ for a new Broadway show.”

      Nobody from the White Collar team had the guts to point out that this was unlikely, or to warn him that he might sustain hearing loss after a few hours of listening to this sort of music. It was definitely going to make for an interesting night.

      Nursing a solitary beer, Peter distracted himself by studying the tableau before him. The stage was set up with elevated drums at the rear. A long keyboard was situated nearby, a myriad of stand-up mikes and cables snaked across the floor and huge amps took up space off to both sides. The only thing that had Peter perplexed was the series of nozzles suspended from the ceiling. Then Jones informed him that during the performance the band was sporadically misted with vodka from above. Apparently, it was their well-publicized signature trademark, and their fans looked forward to witnessing something akin to a wet T-shirt contest.

      They didn’t see Neal (Nick) before the lights on the elaborate stage dimmed at the appointed hour. Then without warning, the entire nightclub was plunged into darkness except for the beacons of exit signs over the doors. An expectant hum swelled within the crowded room and grew in intensity until strobe lights began to rake the stage. Like a magician snatching his cape away to reveal an amazing deception, the scene suddenly revealed the four band members of “Satan’s Spawn” amid a blazing pyrotechnic display. The audience went insane as lead singer, Corey Preston, started his solo. He twanged away on a guitar, but it was obviously merely a prop for effect, because the acoustic guitar that Neal was playing provided the real heart of the piece.

      The crowd definitely took notice of the previously unknown newcomer. The three bottle-blond cougars at the table next to Peter were literally panting over the hunk on lead-guitar. Apparently adjectives like _scrumptious_ , _smokin’_ and _swankalishious_ were positive ones, or at least Peter thought that they were.

      Peter had to blink his eyes to make sure that this was really his CI. He looked nothing like the handsome, dapper conman who sallied through the halls in the White Collar office in his designer suits. He looked years younger with his tousled dark curls falling in his eyes, tight jeans sliced ragged at the knees, biker boots and a white V-neck T-shirt that looked as if it had been sprayed onto his upper body. Peter had never seen Neal without a shirt, but he no longer had to wonder what that looked like because Neal’s appearance left nothing to the imagination.

     For the second number, Neal sang with Corey, and his clear tenor voice complemented the lead singer’s. The audience was enthralled, swaying to the music and applauding with a vengeance, whistling and screaming at the conclusion of the song. At that point, Corey took a break to introduce the band members, one at a time. When at last he came to Neal, he introduced him as Nicky, a stand-in for the absent member who suddenly was too ill to stay with the tour. The overwhelming cheers of approval were deafening and it took time for enough quiet to allow Corey to continue. He moved to the side of the stage so that Nicky could lose the guitar, cock his hip onto a tall stool and begin to sing a slow solo love song as he cradled the microphone in his hands.

     The audience went wild as the last note faded away. Suddenly, articles of intimate clothing began flying onto the stage. Nicky looked enchanted and stooped to pick up a pink, lacy thong and pull it up his arm. The man could certainly work a crowd! The rest of the first half of the performance was an energetic one with Cory and Neal executing footwork and body motions that would have made Michael Jackson proud. It was definitely physically exerting as evidenced by the sweat pouring off the duo. All at once, the “vodka” starting heavily misting the two from above, and Nicky’s shirt swiftly became translucent showing off …well, everything. Then the curtains abruptly closed indicating that the first half of the show was over. Peter was sure that it was only that which staved off a riot and stampede onto the stage.

      As low lights came on in the seating area indicating an intermission, waitresses worked the tables to get fresh drink orders. Suddenly, Neal was standing next to Peter’s chair. Thankfully he had changed into a loose Henley, but the people around them were still staring. As he bent slightly to talk to Peter, a muscular 30ish blond man in tight jeans sidled over to Neal and told him how much he had enjoyed the performance.

      “Thanks, man, I appreciate that,” was Neal’s polite response.

      The man persisted by asking if he could buy him a drink, and then Neal actually startled as the guy grabbed his ass and squeezed. Without batting an eye, Neal simply smiled his killer smile, pivoted, and then plopped himself down on Peter’s unsuspecting lap.

      “Thanks for offering,” Neal purred, “but I’m here with my partner and he’s the jealous type.” Neal then put his arm around Peter’s neck.

      Not to be outmatched by Neal’s poise under pressure, Peter riffed right back, “Yes, I’m afraid I am rather possessive. I like to keep him on a leash around his ankle.”

      “Kinky, Dude,” Mr. Handsy remarked with a smile. “Well, I didn’t know Nicky was hooked up.”

      Then, as he started to turn away, the rejected suitor leaned into Peter and said with a wistful smile, “You are one lucky bastard!”

      Neal couldn’t contain his glee when he noticed Hughes’ apoplectic expression. Diana and Jones had their hands over their mouths to keep their laughter from erupting, but you could just tell by the mirth in their eyes that it was a difficult battle for them. Peter was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

     “Get off of me, Neal, right now!” he hissed.

     Neal complied by grabbing an empty chair and straddling it backwards so that he could face his handler. Peter did a double-take and peered closely into Neal’s dilated eyes. He was shocked by what he saw.

     “You’re high as a kite, Neal! Damn it, what’s gotten into you? What did you take?!!”

     “I didn’t take anything, Peter!” was the outraged reply. “I had a couple of shots of vodka from the container back stage that they hook up to that misting pipe, that’s all. I needed all the fortification that I could get for this embarrassing charade.” He made sure that Hughes heard his remarks. “So what’s the big deal, anyway?” Neal was working himself into a self-righteous snit.

      “The big deal is you’re acting weird, you’re covered in sweat, your hands are shaking, and your eyes are all pupils. C’mon -- let’s get you backstage. I want a look in that dressing room to see what’s going on!”  

      By the time Peter had all but dragged Neal through the gauntlet of tables and located the stage dressing room, Neal was even more agitated and obstinate and truly working himself up into a lather. Jones and Diana had followed in their wake, and that was a serendipitous move because, once inside the small room, they were met with pandemonium. Peter needed all the help he could get when he saw that Corey Preston lay on the floor. His fellow band members were leaning over him nearly hysterical with panic.

      The rock star had collapsed and didn’t appear to be breathing. The frantic manager had already called 911. Jones and Diana immediately started CPR. All focus was so intent on this dramatic montage, that Peter didn’t immediately notice Neal’s dilemma. Peter had just turned to speak to him when he saw his CI hyperventilating, clutching at his chest and slowly sliding down the wall.

      “Neal! Neal!” Peter frantically shook his partner. “What did you take? Tell me, Neal! I need to know so that I can get you help!”

      “Didn’t, Petr,” was the slurred response before Neal started to turn an alarming shade of gray and was gasping for breath.

      Fortunately, the paramedics were now pouring into the room. Extra personnel had come because the call had been made from a public venue and it was unclear how many people needed assistance. Triage was started and aid was rendered to stabilize the two fallen men. Peter stood back helplessly, his mind a blur. Neal never took drugs, and he never lied to Peter. How could this have happened?

      Peter forced his mind to focus. Neal said that he had drunk some vodka. Peter noticed an extra storage tank, about four feet high and cylindrical in shape, standing off to the side in the dressing room. Why would the band need such a large stockpile of alcohol when only a mist was sprayed during the performance? It looked highly suspicious, but he was deterred from further investigation when the emergency responders loaded Neal onto a stretcher for transport. They had placed a tube down his throat and were using an ambu bag to breathe for him.

      “I’m riding with Neal to the hospital,” Peter told his team. Hughes had now joined them as well. “Jones, Diana …check out the vodka tanks and take samples of the liquid, then have our techs analyze it as soon as possible.”

      During the rapid route to the nearest emergency room, Peter registered phrases like elevated blood pressure, irregular heart rate, and respiratory distress. Once Neal was off-loaded and whisked away, Peter experienced a crash after his own adrenalin rush had receded. He felt at loose ends until he was eventually joined by Reese Hughes, of all people. During the long hours of waiting, they had an intense discussion.

      The aftermath the following day was a mixed bag. The manager of “Satan’s Spawn” was indicted for narcotics trafficking. The vodka storage containers were found to have false bottoms, which were tightly packed with bags of the highly potent meth. If anyone inspected the containers and opened them, all that was visible was gallons of alcohol. The packets were sealed in supposedly water-tight, heavy-duty plastic bags. However, one of the bags had developed a small fissure and the drug had leached into the liquid surrounding it. Both Neal and Corey Preston had shared a few shots of vodka from the container that was eventually hooked up to the mister on stage.

      The lead singer had died despite heroic efforts by medical personnel to save his life. His manager would be facing charges of involuntary manslaughter. The man actually whined that it wasn’t really his fault. In the past, there had been problems with leakages in the tanks during transport, so he had warned the band members not to drink from them. The pretext that he used was that he didn’t want the musicians to get drunk before a performance. All of his excuses were small comfort when weighed against a life cut short, as so many others had been. Thankfully, they had gotten to Neal in time to counteract the effects of the methamphetamine. It had been close -- too close for Peter to even contemplate.

       Neal was transferred out of the Intensive Care Unit the next day. Early that afternoon, he awoke and felt a presence in the room. As he turned his head, Neal was astonished to see Reese Hughes sitting quietly at his bedside. Both men simply stared for a few moments until Hughes cleared his throat and started to speak.

       “Caffrey, it’s good to see you awake and okay,” he began haltingly.

       “Actually, … Neal, … I’m really glad that you’re okay.” More hesitation followed, and Neal waited for him to fill in the blanks, to add caveats or admonitions.

      “Look, Neal, I know you realize that I’m not your biggest advocate. I initially gave Peter some leeway about giving you a chance for Peter’s sake, not yours. I never thought it would work and I anticipated that my best agent was in for a world of heartache, and the Bureau a lot of embarrassment and ridicule. I expected you to mess up. To this day, I’m not sure that you haven’t and I’m just kept out of the loop on that score.”

      After letting that sit for a minute, the only response he got from Neal was a continued blank stare. Undaunted, Hughes soldiered on, “I also have come to realize that you and Peter have an unusual bond that I really can’t begin to fathom, but apparently it works for the two of you because there is mutual respect. I’ve seen you put yourself out there on the line for his investigations, time and time again, without a word of complaint. You work as a team, and you both apparently discuss strategies, and you both have input into the situations. He has faith in you, and you trust that he will do his utmost to keep you safe. That being said, I have examined my own motives and do not like my conclusions. In hindsight, I realize that I did not afford you the respect that you have earned over your tenure with us. You have proven yourself to be a valuable asset to the Bureau and I have been cavalier in my attitude towards your worth. I have tended to treat you like an entity rather than a person. I have dictated to you rather than conferred, ignoring the strength of your expertise. For that I apologize.”

      Trying valiantly to retain some shred of imperial dignity, Hughes concluded with, “While I am still wary of you and your methods, I will make an effort to be more cognizant of your value and afford you the respect that you deserve for the work that you do for us.”

      After this rather long-winded, ethereal speech, Hughes rose from his chair and quietly left the room. Later in the afternoon, Peter came for a visit.

      “How are you doing, Neal? Everything good?” Peter asked.

      Neal’s forehead was furrowed in concentration and he looked uncharacteristically bewildered. “I’m not sure, Peter. It’s scary, but I think that I may be experiencing residual hallucinations from the meth overdose!”

 

                                                        


End file.
